


Off Kilter

by Spartapuss



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8644777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spartapuss/pseuds/Spartapuss
Summary: After the traumatic events of Hong Kong, Stephen is finding it hard to sleep. Like, really, really hard. Luckily, he's got a couple of friends looking out for him.





	1. Chapter 1

“Dormammu! I have come to bargain.”

  
“I do not bargain!”

  
A bolt of sickening green suddenly sprouts from his chest. The pain is immediate, awful, vice-like. He welcomes the cold blackness as he feels his heart shudder to a stop. A moment of respite. Then -

  
“Dormammu! I have come to bargain.”

  
This time, his gleeful foe draws out his suffering, slowly flaying him from the legs up, until he is begging for mercy. He doesn’t really expect mercy, and none is forthcoming anyway.

  
“Do you yield, Sorcerer?”

  
He is wheezing, barely breathing in the thin vapours of the Dark Dimension, and almost passed out from blood loss, yet still manages to gasp “Not until we have a deal.”

  
“Then you will die a thousand needless and painful deaths.”

  
His neck is violently snapped back by an unseen force and his vision goes dark -

  
“Dormammu!”

  
He projects swaggering confidence, but inside, his astral form is twisted up in agonised knots as it is compelled to carry out the sequence time has bound it to. Inside, he is screaming, screaming, screaming –

“Strange! Strange!”

  
He is shaken awake, still screaming. Delirious and confused, reality filters slowly in. He is on Earth. He is in bed. He is not dying. The bedclothes are snarled around him in a sweaty tangle, and radiate heat.

  
Wong is standing over him, looking concerned, but not alarmed. He hands Stephen a pewter cup of water. “Drink. Your throat must be sore.”

  
It is. Strange drinks, several drops spilling down his beard in his haste.

“How long?” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand.

  
Wong counts on his fingers. “Almost two hours this time. It would have been more, but your damned Cloak managed to escape and woke me up.” The cloak in question hovers sheepishly behind Wong, its folds twitching anxiously.

Strange groans, and rubs his gritty eyes with the heels of his palms. So little. “I guess that means good morning then Wong.”

  
“Good morning, Doctor Strange. I’ll have someone fetch you some breakfast.” Wong politely departs, leaving Stephen alone with his thoughts.

It’s been over a month since the events in Hong Kong. The first week was a flurry of activity, rebuilding the sanctums, gathering reports from the other masters around the world, and repairing the wards and protective spells which had been damaged in the attacks. Kaecilius was gone, but he still had a few scattered followers who would launch the occasional raid, but they were generally easy enough to repel without a leader or access to the Dark Dimension.

He’d reasoned his lack of sleep was due to the sheer amount of work there was to be done. After all, he was the Sorcerer Supreme now, the guardian of the entire universe. It was a lot of responsibility. And a surprising amount of paperwork, following his swearing-in ceremony. But then the second and third weeks came and went, and he was still waking three or four times a night, screaming so loudly that he learned others could hear even through the thick stone walls. After that, he’d placed a soundproofing charm upon his room, but often the disturbances in energy his distressed astral form produced were still enough to wake the more advanced acolytes in the building.

Now, Strange isn’t bothering to try and get back to sleep, but he is all too aware of the hours he is missing out on starting to take their toll on his body. Aches seem magnified, small injuries are taking longer to heal, and his hands feel even more useless than usual. He checks his watch, and feels his heart sink as he reads 2:40am from the cracked face.

Blearily, he dresses in his customary royal blue robes. Fastening buckles was always a challenge with his damaged hands, but recently he has been using a short spell for simplicity’s sake. If his body has physically slowed down over the last few weeks, his mental state has very suddenly slammed on emergency brakes, swerved, and spun upside down into a ditch.

The Cloak sweeps over his shoulders and clasps affectionately around his neck. After the first few nightmares resulted in the Cloak breaking out of his wardrobe and dragging him out of bed by the feet, thus further hindering his ability to sleep, he’d taken to locking it in a magical chest in the corridor near Wong’s room - much to the Cloak’s distaste. He can rely on it to help when he is in actual bodily distress, but it seems to flounder when it comes to nightmares, and he suspects the Cloak might be feeling rather impotent.

Strange strokes his red collar affectionately and trudges to the library – there is work to be done, and magic to master.

 

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Strange is practicing a tricky fire spell outside in the courtyard. The mandala is fiddly and has complex looping additions that require him to almost hyper extend his arms and then flick them out at esoteric angles. He can’t quite get it right; concentrating is hard to do when you’re tired. During his 5 year residency at New York Hospital, he’d become used to extremely long shifts, and had developed coping mechanisms accordingly. Practicing something so often that it became second nature and the movements were just permanent muscle memory he’d found was excellent preparation for being sleep deprived.

So learning a new spell with unfamiliar movements and positions was probably not the best idea. Still, ambition and the drive for knowledge was what got Doctor Strange up in the mornings, even if those mornings were a little earlier these days.

He completes a fiery line in the air with a flourish and then staggers a little as the energy for the spell flows through him. His target, a small bale of hay across the courtyard, does not burst into wild blue flames as it is supposed to. Angrily, he attempts the magic again, and again, nothing happens. Yet some magical energy is still being taken from him, and he sways on his feet, black spots dotting the edge of his vision.

Perhaps he should stop. No, he must perfect this. He raises his arms to begin anew when shouts reach him, sounding like they are coming from a distance. He ends the flow of magic.

It’s one of the apprentices, Kenara, and she’s levitating a huge globe of water above her as she runs from one door to another. Smoke is rising from one of the buildings, and there’s an eerie glow in the early morning twilight which isn’t streetlights. Suddenly, Wong bursts out of the door nearest to him.

  
“Strange! The Sanctum’s on fire!” His words sound muffled, like he’s hearing vibrations through a wall.

  
“What?”

“The bloody building’s on fire, are you deaf as well as blind?” Wong yells, gesturing at the clearly visible flames flickering in one of the upper windows. “And we can’t seem to put it out.”

  
For the second time that day, Stephen feels a sinking sensation in his chest.

“Fuck. I’m on it.”

He swears, starting to run and opening a doorway at the same time. Within a few seconds, he’s stepping through the sparks into a room which is just starting to properly blaze with broad tongues of blue flame erupting from antique furniture. The heat in the room is physically searing. Acolytes are casting water summoning spells and oxygen removal hexes at it from a distance, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect other than to slow the progress of the fire. They look glad to see him, and reduce the rate of their sorcery as he is forced back to them by the unbearable heat.

Summoning his remaining energy, Doctor Strange seeks out the long winded counter-spell in his memory and, drawing it to the surface, performs the complicated mandalas, even though his hands feel slow and stupid. Finally releasing the magic, he watches with relief as the blue flames recede into nothingness. The students give a resounding cheer, when all of a sudden, a wave of crippling fatigue seeps through his body and he feels his legs give way underneath him. He would have sagged to the floor, but true to its name, the Cloak of Levitation catches him and buoys his limp body up.

Someone must have noticed either his head lolling forwards or the tips of his boots scraping uselessly against the floor, as the cheers are replaced by gasps of concern. As unconsciousness inexorably claims him as its unwilling victim, he feels himself being held up by several supportive arms.


	2. Chapter 2

“Dormammu! I have come to bargain.”

“Why should I bargain with you? I have you here with me forever, and you cannot stop the endless torment I will rain down upon your fragile ape body.”

“Well, that’s very true but- unghh!“

Long shards of razor sharp rock embed themselves in Strange’s gut and he doubles over, mortally wounded. Those were definitely vital organs. He throws up a few half-hearted shields, fends off a few on the edge of one mandala, and then cries out as another volley comes from behind and slices up his unprotected arm and face. He resigns himself to yet another death.

“I rule the Dark Dimension, and you will NEVER defeat me, pitiful worm.”

“Also true, but I can keep being defeated for – gahhh!”

A sinister magic bubbles up along the surface of his skin, singing off any hair and giving off a sulphuric smell. He scrabbles backwards trying to escape it, scrubbing at his burning flesh with one clawed hand, even as more flying splinters bury themselves into his legs and side.

“How long can you keep this up, Strange? We’ve got eternity!”

He tries to yell a pithy retort, but the black ooze has reached his mouth, and the boiling filth scorches his throat as it forces its way into his lungs and oh god it burns it BURNS –

“Master. Stop it. Stop it!”

He is being held down, his hands bound to his sides, shaking still. Arms all around, blurry faces above. His face hurts abominably.   
“Doctor Strange!”

“…What’s going on?” His lips feel cracked and painful.

“Please lie still. Please.”

He lies still, as instructed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He tries to calm himself. He is on Earth. He is in… not his bed, but a bed. He is not dying. Probably.  
Apprentice Fionn cautiously brings an antiseptic-smelling cloth to his face, but yelps suddenly as the Cloak protectively slaps away his hand. If it had a mouth and vocal cords, it would probably have hissed.

“Uh, no. Give me that, I’m quite capable of washing my own face thank you.”

Stephen shoos them away and climbs out of the bed, suddenly aware that he is only wearing a pair of trousers and not much else. The Cloak furtively draws itself around his body like a mother hen.

“Out!” The apprentices file out, very quickly. One of the younger girls is blushing.

He takes the antiseptic wipe and stumbles to a full-length silver mirror, intent on moistening his chapped lips. What he sees makes him drop it. As it flutters limply to the floor, Strange takes in his unusually haggard appearance. Deep bloody scratches cover his lower face, tearing through his lower lip and down through his goatee. They are repeated on his arms, chest and stomach, as if he has been attacked by a wild and furious animal. Shaking, he lifts up his hands, and observes that his fingernails are also covered in blood. Panic rises within him, and he struggles to contain it.

“You’ve got to do something about this, Strange. You almost burned the Sanctum down with your carelessness. Why on Earth weren’t you using the mirror dimension to practice your new spells in?”

He sees Wong reflected in the mirror, leaning against the doorframe and looking vexed.

“I… I don’t know. I think I thought I was. To be honest, I don’t really remember walking from the library, I was just suddenly at the training area.”

That part is true, though what Stephen neglects to mention is that he hasn’t astral projected or visited another dimension in weeks - but he won’t tell his friend that.

Wong grimaces. “This is getting worse.”

It’s a blunt statement of fact, not a question, and suddenly realisation dawns upon Strange that unless something changes, he is not going to get any better.

Stephen peers closely at his eyes in the glass. They are red-rimmed and the sclera are covered in spidery pink capillaries. A nervous tic is twitching in the corner of his lower left eyelid, emphasizing the dark circles that shadow underneath. “I’ve tried every spell I know, plus a whole lot that I didn’t. Spells of forgetting, spells of dreamless sleep, even Ridcully’s Patented Thaumaturgical Cure for Lunacy.”

Strange grins lopsidedly into the mirror, his lips bleeding. “Perhaps a different kind of madness lives within me.”

Wong walks over to him, emitting a rare chuckle. “Probably. Anyway, you should clean yourself up; you're scaring the students. You look like a walking corpse. You know, like that television programme you showed me about those dead people, that were walking.” He throws Strange the packet of antiseptic wipes. Strange clumsily misses the easy catch by a mile; his co-ordination way off. Frowning, Wong picks it up off the floor and exasperatedly hands it to Stephen instead.

“See, this is what I'm talking about. Have you thought of trying non-magical cures? You could go and see a doctor.”

Stephen snorts, dabbing aggressively at his face. “I am a doctor, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Believe me, none of us can ever forget.”

He glares daggers at Wong. The Cloak flips its corners back and forth irately.

“What I mean is, going into actual human hospital with no magic, no spells. Just medical professionals who can give you some impartial advice.”

Strange winces as the chemicals sting his cuts, and he shivers, remembering his most recent death by acid. “Perhaps that idea has merit. I’ll consider it.”

“Well consider it fast, Strange. You're starting to make some grievous errors. As the Sorcerer Supreme; it’s your duty to be fit and healthy, ready to protect the Universe at a moment's notice. Your apprentices are young and barely into their first year of training, imagine what would happen if the Followers of Kaecilius regrouped and attacked us here. The way you are now, we’d be making our last stand behind your charred corpse.”

Stephen picks at his bloody nails. “Blah, blah, blah… What are you, my mother?”

“If I was your mother, I’d have kicked your rude ass to the hospital by now. Unfortunately, I’m just your friend.”

That really stung.

Steven pushes himself away from the mirror and straightens to his full height, growling softly as the cuts stretch across his chest. “One of my greatest friends.” He says softly.

“One of your only friends! Now, go see your other one, before I drag you there myself.”

Without further ado, Strange opens a doorway, and limps through it.

 

It had been a busy day on the ward. Three gunshot patients, two with head trauma, a handful of burns and one cardiac arrest. Christine was taking a well-earned coffee break at the nurses’ station and sorting through a bit of paperwork.

“Christine!”

She peers over her files in consternation, her pulse quickening in fight or flight response. She knows that gravelly voice, and she also remembers the baggage that comes with it.

“Christine?”

She scrabbles in her desk drawer for the emergency first aid kit she keeps excessively stocked for occasions such as these and runs down the corridor. Stumbling from wall to wall is a lurching figure any other person would assume was a drunk returning the worse for wear from a costume party. She's pretty sure it’s him, only looking bloodier and more damaged. No one else has such pretentious facial hair, or such an imperious tone.

“Stephen? What happened? Are you ok? Where’s your shirt?”

Strange looked down at his bare and bloody chest in surprise. “Oh. I don’t know. Is this one of those dreams where you’re naked in front of your friends in public?” He giggles rather hysterically, and slumps against the wall of the corridor. A passing orderly stares at him in concern, and a group of nurses cluster at the end of the hall clutching worriedly at their pagers.

“Come on, in here you lunatic.” Christine pulls him into the nearest room by the scruff of his Cloak, which surprisingly doesn't resist her. The small office contains just a computer desk, a few chairs and a sofa. She leads him to the couch and pushes him down.

“Start from the beginning.” She says as she rummages in her kit for sterile bandages.

“Well, uh, let’s see. Mainly, I’ve been finding it hard to sleep.”

Christine gives him a confused look. “And what does that have to do with you turning up here, half-naked and covered in blood?”

Stephen surreptitiously pulls the edges of the Cloak to cover himself while he wonders what he can possibly say. He settles with telling her the truth, or at least the bare bones of it.

“Nightmares. Bad ones. Awful, in fact. Where I’m relieving a… a painful time, over and over and over. When I wake, I’m still screaming, or I’m somewhere else, or I’ve hurt myself… Or someone else.” He finishes quietly.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Uh, well I passed out for about twenty minutes earlier. But before that, an hour or two every other night maybe?”

“Jesus, Stephen. You’re going to kill yourself.”

“I know. I’m exhausted, barely able to perform the simplest of spells.”

Christine is silent for a minute. “You can’t, you know, like, magic it away or something?”

He shakes his head seriously.

“Looks like we’ll have to try the old fashioned way then.”

Strange blanches, and unconsciously begins rubbing his hands. “More surgery?” He doesn't know if he would be able to trust anyone to perform operations on him any more.

“Therapy.”

“Oh.”

She lets his exclamation hang bewildered in the air while she methodically disinfects and bandages the wounds on his chest.

“Who –“

“Who do you think, Stephen? Who else can you talk to about your weird cult and your magical nightmares but me?”

She murmurs to herself, “Are these burns on your arms?”

“Ah. Of course.” He yawns widely. “And yes. I miscast a spell and accidentally caused quite a large house fire.”

“Sometimes I forget how out of touch you are with normal life. It might do you good to lay off the cult stuff for a bit.”

Strange begins to protest, but she cuts him off. “Just until you’re better. After that, you can cast all the crazy portal spells you want.”

“Fine. But, it’s not a cult.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So, this Dormammu. He’s in every dream?”

“Don’t try and psychoanalyse me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalysed.”

Christine rolls her eyes. “Stephen, please. I’m doing this as a favour to you. For no pay, on my afternoon off, might I add.”

“I’ll get Wong to pay you later if you want.” He smiles, with a casual flick of his wrist; a little of his old arrogance resurfacing. He’s grown, but old habits die hard. “But yes. Every dream. He kills me every time. In various, ah, creative ways.”

“And this actually happened to you?”

“…Yes.”

“How many times?”

“What?”

“How many times did you have to relive Dormammu killing you?”

“Oh. Uh. I lost track after the hundredth time. But, it was definitely a lot more. Perhaps, I don’t know, around a thousand times?”

Christine gapes at him. “You were killed a thousand times?”

"Give or take. It took me quite a while to die in some loops, and let me tell you, that really screws with your perception of time.”

“Jesus. That’s… I mean. God. I can see why you need therapy.”

“Well, I mean it didn’t technically happen. Not in the real world at least. Not to the same body. It was a slightly different version of me every time the time loop restarted. Different me, different death.”

“But you still remember it all?

“…Yes.”

“Then it did happen, and it’s still perfectly valid. Whatever time nonsense was happening, the fact is Stephen that you have multiple memories of your own life ending. I mean, I’ve counselled patients who have had one near-death experience and have PTSD. You’ve had a thousand real-death experiences.” 

Stephen scoffed, “So, your diagnosis is Post-traumatic Stress Disorder? Come on Christine, you know me better than that.”

She raises one hand and counts off her fingers. “Symptoms: One – You experienced the most hellishly awful thing I could imagine. Two - Chronic insomnia. Three – Traumatic flashbacks and nightmares. Four – Dissociation, lack of concentration, and reckless behaviour. Five – you haven’t looked me in the eyes once the whole time you’ve been here Stephen.”

The Sorcerer Supreme blinks at her, his eyes widening.

“I…”

She smiles sadly at him. “Yes?”

“Oh. Christine.” He breathes. “I’m an idiot.”

“No. You can be pig-headed, stubborn as hell, and an arrogant ass, but never an idiot.” She reaches a hand out and lays it gently on his knee. “You’ve been bottling this up, like you always do, and it takes someone else to reach in and show you what’s going on.” 

“But what do I do?” He asks in a low voice. He knows what the treatment is for PTSD, has written treatises on the subject, but right now he just wants someone else to tell him. “I have a Sanctum to run, and apprentices to train. Wong and I were about to travel to Hong Kong to meet with the master to help them repair their damaged magical relics, and after that I need to –“

“All that can wait, Stephen. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but you need to stop looking out for others and look after yourself for a change.”

Strange fiddles with a hole in the fabric of the old sofa.

“I want you to come over to my place, once a day until you start sleeping better. And I’m going to help you through this.”

"When can we start?"

Christine flips through the calendar app on her phone. "Thursday." She pronounces finally.

Stephen groans. "And what am I supposed to do until then? Today I caused a fire, between now and then I might cause a nuclear explosion, a tsunami, a rip in the fabric of spacetime!"

She rolls her eyes, and says "Fine. I’ll write you up a prescription for benzos. It’s a bit risky, but you probably need them more than anyone else in this hospital. Stay here, I'll be right back. Do not go anywhere or talk mumbo jumbo to anyone."

Christine leaves the office and Stephen relaxes a little. He kicks back on the sofa, safe in the knowledge that someone else is looking out for him. In the meantime, he occupies himself with some scrapped patient records carelessly left next to the wastebin, and starts going through them with a red pen, correcting diagnoses and amending diagrams. Though he is enjoying himself, his alertness gradually starts to slip, and all too soon, his eyes are fluttering shut. The clipboard slides slowly from his hands.

"Dormammu! I have... Augh-"

A spear of circular energy slices through each of his four limbs at once, severing flesh and bone consecutively. Helpless on the ground, grotesque insectile creatures emerge from the rocks and swarm towards his terrified face, and oh god, they’re- they’re-

“Dormammu! Ugh-" 

A flight of crystal knives slip one after the other into his torso. His lungs are tattered but he can still fight on his last breath, he’s got about two minutes of oxygen in his bloodstream and then -

"Dormammu! I have come to..GAHh-"

A blazing chunk of dark matter rockets from above, blazing a pure blackness that consumes him and then - 

"Dor- Oh, fuck-!

He vainly tries to duck the purple pulse of light and then - 

And then-

And then -

"Hold his head!"

"Someone get Doctor Hartnell!"

Strange is gasping for air but the flashes keep coming.

"Dormammu! I have come to barg-aiii!"

A monolithic fist made of stars and demons hurtles towards him and then -

"Dorm- akk!"

Ten different snake-like shadows take hold of his limbs and pull, and pull, and he feels his bones popping out of their joints and then -

"10mg of diazepam, intramuscular, go."

"Jesus Kate, keep his arm down!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this far! apologies for short installments, i write in the same way that nature made me: meandering, easily sidetracked, and predominantly nocturnal.  
> stay weird, beach city


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in new chapters, this one was a pain to write. The next one should flow more easily, fingers crossed.

He wakes to beeping.  
Beep.   
Beep.   
Beep. 

What is it? He knows. It's familiar. The sounds are rhythmic and important, they bring to mind a sense of urgency and purpose. A heartbeat! But it’s not a patient’s vitals, it’s his own. Which means he’s in another hospital bed. 

The monitor blips faster as a sudden wave of panic floods his guts, and he tries to move his hands. Mercifully, the fingers respond, twitching and curling into fists. Still there. Still heavy and trembling, but right there under the thin cotton sheet, unrestrained by bandages or by metal cages. 

Why then, is he here? 

As his vision adjusts to the darkened room, Stephen notices Christine slumped sideways in an uncomfortable looking leather chair at the foot of the bed. Christine. He still harbours the softest parts of himself for her, tries to lessen his abrasive nature whenever she's around. They broke up years ago, and he's pretty sure she'll resent him forever after the shitty way he treated her. Still, they've both changed, and the whole universe around them is different now. 

The heart monitor beeps in time with the rhythm of her chest steadily rising and falling. She's sound asleep, and a smile leaps to his lips unbidden. That same smile cracks the healing amber scab over his lower jaw, and he yelps inadvertently. The movement of his lungs against his chest sends a myriad shooting aches sparking down through his body, and it’s like a beaten up old car coughing into life. The thrill of vitality in his veins is hot and painfully unfamiliar.

Immediately, Christine is there by his side. 

"What is it Stephen? What's wrong? "

"Nothing, I'm fine, I'm okay. See?" He touches two fingers to his face, drawing back a tiny ruby bead of blood and shows it to her hesitantly. The acknowledgement is for both their benefits, as Strange is still a little unsure of his situation, and is unsettled by how fast Christine reacted to his exclamation of shock. He can feel there are a lot of drugs in his system however. The groggy traces of analgesics and painkillers hint tantalisingly at some trauma he can't quite recall. 

She stares at him for a long moment, her golden eyes shrewdly piercing the pale blue of his own, as if she is searching for something within the bands of tiny muscles and layered proteins.

"You bastard..." she whispers finally, laying her head in his lap. 

"Excuse me?"

Christine looks up from where she is slumped, and her cheeks are faintly wet. His heart twists. She looks at him accusingly. "I told you not to go anywhere."

Strange frowns slightly. "But I didn't leave the office?"

"You went... somewhere. Jesus, Stephen, I thought you were going to die. They had to artificially induce a coma to stop you seizing."

"I was having seizures?"

"Just the one, actually. I came back to the office and you were just... on the floor, furniture everywhere. I couldn't get near you, so I called the other nurses. It was lucky I did, because your episode lasted for an hour before we could stop it."

"Huh." That wasn't what he was expecting.

"Don't "huh" me, Stephen Strange. You've been unconscious in the ICU for two days. How are you feeling?"

He considers this. His body feels lethargic, but mostly pain free. The persistent headache that has plagued him for weeks is, deliciously, no longer there. 

"I'm... not as tired as I was." He realises with delight, rolling his stiff shoulders tentatively. 

"I should bloody hope not. You were pumped with enough sedatives to bring down a bull elephant.” Christine is evidently not as surprised as he is by this discovery.

Stephen reaches out with his consciousness and sends curious tendrils of thought down through every inch of his body, curling like small golden threads within the cells. The information they send back to him corroborates with all other evidence; his bodily injuries are healing naturally; the damaged cells removed and younger cells multiplying, all fed by nutrients which flow through his bloodstream from a small hole in his arm. He is confused at first, until he opens his physical eyes to look and discovers that there is an IV attached to his inner elbow. 

He also finds that his ex-girlfriend is staring intently at him, with the expression of a visitor at a zoo perplexed by some unusual creature. “What are you doing? Magic?”

“Just a… routine check-up. Won’t be a minute.”

Satisfied, he wills one miniscule strand towards the strange parts of his brain - bizarrely located in the cerebellum - which his astral form uses to project itself from. Before all this started, he would have opined that higher thought could only ever originate from the main cerebrum, whereas all the so-called “little brain” was good for were relatively unimportant tasks such as regulating basic sensory systems and making sure you didn’t fall over. But then again, it made an odd kind of sense for magic to live there; it being the oldest and most primal part of the human brain. One of these days he would have to sit down and properly study the intersects between science and magic. Perhaps he should contact the Avengers - he's sure Thor would have some very interesting insights.

With the lightest of feather touches, he stimulates the core of the cerebellum tissue gently, extending his consciousness along the twisted pathways of the arbor vitae until he meets resistance.

A maelstrom of unexpected anxiety and terror consumes him in a mad rush, or rather, it consumes the small questing thought he sent. Through it he senses the violent thrash of his damaged astral form against his living and now healthy body, like a whirling storm contained in a terrarium. He recoils. It’s really no wonder he’s been ill. 

He remembers reading in a book with a thick viridian cover that the soul, or astral form, should never be allowed to stray too far from the fundamental nature of its body. For example, if one’s astral form were to be killed, one’s physical body would also die due to the change in relative circumstances. Strange had even anecdotally proved that in beating one of Kaecilius’s followers in the operating theatre. Essentially, the book with the green cover explained that the soul and the body were too closely linked to live separate lives for long. 

Uneasiness now twitches in Strange’s chest. 

If he uses astral projection, he risks losing his mind. 

If he does nothing, his corrupted astral form will gnaw away at his physical form day by painful day, stealing his vitality until there is nothing left anyway.

Strange stares unblinking at Christine, really noticing her for the first time in a while. He’s usually so damn self-absorbed, and he briefly berates himself for falling back into old habits. He drinks in her slightly dishevelled hair, the bobbles on her cardigan, her grave hazel eyes. She still does care for him, maybe even more than he knows - he can’t force her to watch him waste away.

Again, the former surgeon reminds himself bitterly.

Christine catches him looking, and sits up straight like she’s caught her hand on a high voltage wire.

“No, no, no, Stephen. I know that look. I’ve just got you back.” she pleads, grabbing his right hand so forcefully his recently reattached tendons threaten to detach again. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. Don’t you do it.”

Her fierce words strike a chord. 

“I…won’t.” Strange says, slow realisation dawning like bright winter sunlight across his face as plans furiously take shape in his brilliant mind. 

In all honesty, he had been planning on throwing himself out of his physical body right then and there, consequences be damned. 

“But maybe Wong will.”

“As usual, you aren’t making any sense. Do what?”

“Oh, he’s going to hate it.” Strange chuckles gleefully.

 

“I hate this.” complained Wong, shuffling his softly moccasined feet across the tiles. “Strange, you are by far the most reckless sorcerer I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.”

“Do you have a better proposal?” 

“You know I don’t.” 

A rush of atmospheric pressure signals the arrival of a guest in their inner sanctum. A sparking orange doorway opens up in the Kathmandu entrance, and a neatly dressed man with dark hair and old-fashioned spectacles steps through.

“Ah, Master Hamir. Welcome to the New York Sanctum. Thank you for coming.” Wong greets the Master warmly with a strong clasp of the hands, and shows him towards a parlour in which the majority of the sanctum’s acolytes sit watchfully, as well as several other masters.

“That’s everyone?”

“Everyone that could spare the time, and was intrigued by your rather cryptic message. There’s also been that nasty golem problem in London, so they are understandably engaged in more pressing matters at the moment."

“Ah, yes. Perhaps when I am recovered we can offer our assistance.”

The Cloak flutters happily at the thought of a little straightforward trouble for a change.

 

 

In the dojo space usually reserved for meditation, Strange gathers his fellow sorcerers around himself in a large circle. Each is kneeling or seated comfortably in lotus position, and many have already begun breathing exercises in preparation for whatever they are called upon to do. Opposite him sits Wong, hands folded in his lap.

Strange clears his throat, acutely conscious of their keen stares. “As you know, two months ago I brokered a deal with Dormammu, ruler of the Dark Dimension, so that he would spare Earth. In order to make this deal, I created a time loop using the Eye of Agamotto in which to capture him.”

He gently taps the metal amulet resting against his breast. The eye is closed and calm, belying its terrible power.

“Unfortunately, I was also imprisoned with him, and thus was subject to his will. As you can probably imagine, the King of such a domain does not respond well to disagreements. My body was destroyed countless times, and after each, the Eye returned me to life and began the cycle anew until agreement was reached.”

There is a sharp intake of breath around the room, and the students' stares get keener. Some of the older masters straighten slightly, their interest piqued.

“However, in my readings I have discovered that the Eye requires the bearer to be alive in some form for its magic to function. Therefore I have come to believe that each time loop must have restarted before my astral form was completely extinguished.”

Master Hamir nods sanguinely. 

“I have tried many methods, but even now, my spirit still suffers. I cannot accomplish this alone. So I have gathered you in this place so that you might use your combined energy to perhaps undo some of the damage that was wrought that day. I believe that together, you may be able to remove the blight.” 

A low murmur susurrates at the back of the room, growing louder until Strange holds up one hand for silence.

“Understand that I do not ask this of you lightly. It is a heavy burden on me, and it might prove thus for you too.”

A stern looking woman with closely cropped blond hair he vaguely recognises speaks up. "Strange, why do you request this now? It is unnecessarily dangerous. We have other tasks more pressing at the moment."

He glances at the hand he has raised. It is trembling like the last leaf on a windblown tree, helpless before the unseen force that moves it. His thick keloid scars, as always, repel him, as he calls to mind the dexterity he once had, and the metal that moves beneath the translucent veneer of his grafted skin sometimes sickens him to the point where he has to hide his hands away from his sight. Instead, today he splays his fingers, awkwardly moving them one by one, and drawing attention to the way they quiver through the positions. 

“You see that I already bear physical deformities. With magic and strength of will, I am able to overcome them, as some of you also do.” His gaze brushes past Hamir, and the vacant cotton sleeve of his robe.

“But as Sorcerer Supreme, I must walk the line between worlds to keep the peace. That peace is fragile, and now it is even more vulnerable as I cannot protect it. Since confronting Dormammu, I have not been able to fulfil my duties, as I can no longer enter the Astral plane. I am confined to this one dimension.” He lowers his hand back to his lap and bows his head slightly, a little beaten from the confession.

But the blonde woman nods, apparently satisfied with his honesty. "How do we help?"

Wong shoots a pleased look at Stephen, and takes over. “I’ve been studying the lore, and while there isn’t exactly a remedy for this precise situation, there is at least some historical precedent. For example, an old account from 8th century Kamar-Taj speaks of a healing ceremony in which seven sorcerers melded their power to heal one of their own. She had been mortally injured in the spirit world, and her physical body was dying. The method is unclear but the principle is solid.”

Master Hamir pushes his glasses up to speak. “It is as Wong says. I know the book you quote, and I agree that the description therein is vague. We would be most unwise to follow it.”

A dark look crosses Strange’s face, and he appeals. “But surely, if it was done -"

“However, I do have its appendices in my own library. A rare collection, and one which I spent many years finding and restoring."

Strange notices Wong’s eyes gleaming hungrily and smirks. 

"Inside these notes are details of spells performed during this ceremony. I am reasonably confident in my own abilities to replicate this one. While others use their own astral forms to heal directly, I will remain here casting spells of joining and renewal, and to act as a focus for the physical body. Master Wong, as the one here most familiar with Stephen's mind, you will lead the healing in the astral plane."

Wong scowls. "You are going to owe me so many favours after this, Strange."

Stephen winces.


End file.
